Death Plays Poker by Robin Spano

front of him.
    Clare reached forward to press in the car lighter.
    “People close to horror need to lighten things up to make sense of them,” Cloutier said in response to her silence.
    “I don’t need to lighten things up. I can handle reality fine.”
    “Yeah?” Cloutier changed lanes to pass an Indian family in a sedan. Clare tried to figure out how there could be enough seat belts for all the passengers. “What’s your sarcasm all about, then?”
    “My sarcasm reflects the way I see the world,” Clare said. “I don’t take myself too seriously.”
    “You’ve just proven my point.”
    “Which point? The point about me not being qualified to follow the tournament to Vancouver?”
    “I meant the smaller point — about lightening up reality. I don’t need to justify my decision about your job.”
    Clare continued to stare out the window. “I think some of the players might be cheating. Have you heard anything about that from the RCMP ?”
    Sergeant Cloutier shook his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me, though. Poker’s not known for the honest people who are drawn to the game. You got names?”
    “I think that’s why Willard Oppal died.”
    “Come on, Vengel. Stop clutching at straws.”
    “I’m serious. About Oppal. Send me wherever you want — undercover yoga, for all I care — but I think he got made as a cop when he was sniffing around this cheating scam.”
    “Hm.” Cloutier moved his jaw to one side. It made him look French. “Where are you getting this impression?”
    Clare opened her pack and took out two cigarettes. “Mickey Mills and Fiona Gallagher.”
    “Yeah?” Cloutier accepted the cigarette and the light.
    “I could fly out to Vancouver and —”
    “Can you be quiet for five seconds? I’m thinking.”
    “About my job?”
    “And the rest.”
    Clare frowned at her glittery pink manicure and wondered why she’d been drawn to a job that forced her to be so duplicitous.
    After three or four minutes, Cloutier rolled the window down a crack and said, “Tell me more about the cheating.”
    “Mickey says he thinks some players are tuning into the hole card camera feed. So they can basically play like they’re psychic.”
    “And why did Mickey tell you this?”
    “Because he’s coaching me. Was coaching me.”
    “Shit, Vengel.” Cloutier smacked his fist into the vinyl dash, accidentally flicking ash forward.
    “What?” Clare had no idea what she’d said wrong.
    “You want to keep your job, you might want to open with that. Getting coached by Mickey Mills is a legitimate in. Better than any of this speculation about Oppal and hole card scams.”
    Clare felt stupid for not seeing that before.
    Cloutier brushed the ash from the dashboard. It smudged a bit, but he didn’t seem bothered. It was the government’s car.
    Clare didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Then, “So can I stay?”
    Cloutier did that thing with his mouth again, moving his lower jaw so it wasn’t aligned with his top one. “I know you think you can do this. But even the fact that you didn’t put your best argument forward — you’re stumbling. Maybe you’ll stumble onto something great, like you did with your first case. But to survive in this field you need to act aware. Knowing, not guessing, is what gets the job done well. It’s also what keeps you alive.”
    “That’s not entirely true.” Clare tried to keep her voice level and respectful. “Too much confidence can close your mind. I want to be a damn good undercover cop one day, and I know I still have lots to learn. But I think my open mind is a good thing on a case as complicated as this. The only way I’ll get killed is if I get made, and Amanda did a great job creating Tiffany as someone who won’t get made anytime soon.”
    Cloutier glanced at her briefly and turned his eyes back to the road.
    “I want to figure out a way into this cheating ring,” Clare said. “What do you think?”
    “You want to cheat at cards?”